Why you should never go southside

Nothing good comes of going southside in Melbourne (EXCEPTIONS, two only: dog at beach and kugelhopf from Monarch Cakes) and yesterday’s flouting of this rule got us suitably punished.

Two chums and I beetled all the way down Punt Road* to Brighton (BRAYTON, dahling) to see the Grant Featherston exhibition hosted therein. After a long, long, long drive to get there, we discovered that Brayton Council had closed the exhibition in mid-December and weren’t reopening it until mid-February. WHO GETS TWO MONTHS’ HOLIDAY OVER HEXMAS? Brayton does.

So what to do but to see consolatory cake. Off we went, beetling through Elsternwick wondering why, why, why, are no bakeries open? Is ALL of Brayton on extended holiday? Lazy sons of….. oh. It’s Shabbat. Of course nothing is open. No sugary lardy carby treats for us.

Onward ho to Malvern… nothing here, we just got lost, because it’s a big wealthy shiny suburb and we were all slummy northsiders who didn’t know the area.

Finally, finally, we got back to friendly territory and stopped at Abbotsford Convent where we tested the sweets to be had at Kappaya, a lovely, lovely Japanese eatery that’s recently moved from Johnston St. I can’t find anything about them but flickr user Carolyn approves of their tea. There we had sparkling ginger juice, green tea mousse, burnt sesame pudding and delightful crumbly cheesecake and it was all OK again. Northside forgave us our tresspasses.

*quote from Claire Hooper in silly monthy glossy mag in The Age – Melbournians can be defined by “a strong, visceral response to the words Punt Road”.

Sympatico

As one who rudely mutters every time Ma plants another @#%! rosebush, I chuckled when I got this email from her this morning:

Have you become the guest blogger on Garden Rant without telling me????

Elsewhere, this made me laugh too. You know the ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ poster/tea towel/ubiquitous motif? Well, Memey Memey Meme Meme to that.

Community service announcement

Jac has a new puppy.

I thought you should know, since I believe this picture has curative properties. It’s good for what ails you.

That is all.

Oz Day

So, what did youse all do on Oz Day?

For me, in this order:  BBQ, Aussie films, beach and wattle trees. Please explain?

1. BBQ and 2. Aussie films: Net hosted a film festival in her shed with technical, creative and moral support from Vetti and her mister. The selected films were BMX Bandits starring our Nic back when she looked human and could form facial expressions (“You’re in the poo now, girlie”) and Puberty Blues which probably remains, to this day, an accurate portrayal of Cronulla life (“Dead set!”).

3. Beach: We were dog-sitting the lovely Peanut who enjoys a bit of running (and running, and running, and running) on the sand, so we headed south. ‘Twas a veritable Life: Be In It ad down there at St Kilda… people picnicking, kiteing, walking, running, frisbeeing, BBQing, cycling… and a surprising lack of the public drunkenness, nationalism and flag-wearing we’ve come to expect from Oz Day. It’s just unAustralian.

4: Trees: I’m growing for revegetation do-gooders Tree Project and spent the evening doing some much-needed transplanting some of my charges into their own pot. What could be Aussier than growing wattle trees? Below: some teeny tiny Acacia dealbata. I love the idea that some day there will be a little patch of forest comprised of these little trees.

Born free, as free as the grass grows…

I gave him everything I could. All the flies he could eat. Adoration and praise. A jaunty Spanish name. A nice humid container where he could moult without fear of drying too quickly and thusly ending up hideously deformed. But there was one thing I couldn’t give him – that special someone with whom he could raise a family (and perhaps have his head eaten in the process) and so, last night, Manuel was released on the peach tree. May he find himself a nice gal and make many more mantids.

We went to see Daniel Kitson’s show, 66a Church Road – A Lament Made of Memories and Kept in Suitcases this week and loved it. That man knows how to spin a yarn. Said Curmudgeon of the tale of the bacon and avocado sandwich, “That’ the sort of bloody-minded thing I’d do.” Other highlights include spookiness, tiny models of his flat (which the audience is allowed to inspect once the show is done), and a being left with a happy thoughtfulness as you ponder all the places you’ve lived in, which ones you left your mark on, and which ones left an indelible mark upon you. It’s on til the 31st Jan… get thee a ticket. It’s funny and wonderful.

All grown up

 

Manuel the Mantid went through his final moult yesterday and is now sporting a magnificent pair of wings. It’s like he just got a shiny V8 ute and is ready to go cruising for chicks.

Please, someone, find him a ladyfriend! The search continues.

There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza

The Sunday magazine featured a most foolish device a few weeks back. It was a clear plastic cover for stiletto heels so you could increase the area over which your weight was distributed and thus tread comfortably across sand, grass, floorboards, and other surfaces otherwise perilous to those in stilettos. It annoyed me because the obvious solution, of course, is to stop wearing such stupid shoes that cripple and maim.

In a similar vein, some might argue that the best way to prevent besmirchment of your bedding by troublesome muddy footprints is to forbid your troublesome muddy dog from getting up on the bed. Not so. The best way is to create a cheerful, washable bedspread. Thusly I have explained the project what I mentioned last time.

Action shot:

If you want to know about the fabrics I used, check out this flickr pic with extreme note density.

Today in the Ladies’ Lounge

I’m working on A Project in the Ladies’ Lounge at present. Look at how the Squid basks not in the crafty glory, nay, but a spot of sunshine.

Dandelion juice

For the first post of the year, let’s talk about a bizarre and grotesque skin complaint with a name so awesome you may soon see it bestowed upon a celebrity baby. I’m talking about – and if don’t enjoy a medical condition picture as much as I do, don’t click through – Pompholyx.

I got me some of that shizz-nit. Makes my hands look a little reptilian and perhaps indicates impending transformation into a fearsome comic superhero called Chamaelona or Tuatara. Should probably quit writing and work on latex/breastplate/scaly boots costume concept in readiness. Ooooh, I wonder if I’ll grow a tail?! Hope it’s prehensile.

Anyway, anyway, the nice dermatologists of NZ have informed me, by way of their online database of skintacular catastrophe, that it’s quite common, they dunno why it happens, and I shouldn’t touch irritants like water (??!!) or nickel. Bung on some sterioids and I’ll be tickety-boo.

Then again, another search result describes it as ‘rare’ (read: sufferer is special, unique, misunderstood, possibly anointed by God) and mentions dandelion juice as a possible treatment. They reckon this remedy has been used for over 1000 years so it must be good. Oh and look, it’s also therapeutic for “obesity, gout, hypertension, arteriosclerosis, kidney stones…” (how sinister is that elipsis??). There’s also a happy little story about lonely flowers and plantar warts over here, if you like.

I accidentally flicked to the new kids’ channel, ABC3 yesterday. I was transfixed by an utterly trippy show, clearly descended from the trailblazing Teletubbies, with people overacting in fat furry suits while uttering whimsical semi-words and skipping through waist-high daisies. I realise now that reading about alternative medicine induces exactly the same response in me – I can’t tear myself away from the weirdness. I’d better go and spend some time at Bad Science to dry out.